


Queen Bee

by wordybirdy



Series: Trifle Bubbles - One-Shots & Multi-Chaptered [12]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Drama, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Mystery, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-04 01:54:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16337492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: The Spring of 1904 sees Holmes & Watson settling into their Sussex farm.  Holmes makes an unexpected and emotional discovery.  And just who is the odd little man who appears to be watching them from afar?





	1. Chapter 1

The first Spring flowers were in bloom. All the daffodils and tulips, and the crocuses and bluebells, unfurled and stretching to the sun, and bumping petals in the breeze. The trees in leaf, still tentative, but birds now singing overhead from every branch; the sweetest chorus to be heard. Our cottage windows, open wide to suck the scent in from the blossoms and the hint of ocean brine. _Spring!_ Here it was, and here we were, such was the novelty, wrapped in it.

Progress had been made, then, since the blighting, drawn-out Winter. Renovations to the cottage – the roof repaired, windows replaced, a fresh lick of paint around and under – and to the front outside, new bulbs and seeds already sprouting forth and bursting through the green.

It was just ten o'clock, and the table had been cleared from early breakfast. The first post had come, and now I thumbed through leaflets, bills and letters. No longer urgent telegrams, nor frantic hand-scrawled messages, inviting us to trawl the ends of London on some caper; no, those days were gone, and in their place this calm, this sweet unending peace.

I wended to the kitchen, placed the letters on the table. From the window I could see the tall lean figure of my friend at some far distance by the hives. I unlatched the door and made my way to him, picking a path across the long grass.

“Any movement?”

“No, not yet.” Holmes turned and smiled. “A few days more, then we shall see.”

“I don't understand a thing about it,” I confessed. “Worker bees, and Queen bees, and all the rest. It's baffling.”

“It's _fascinating_ , John.” He put an arm around my waist. “I've waited years for this.”

“I know.”

“Ever since our trip to France, do you remember?”

“Yes. Our 'honeymoon'.” (A happy memory: a holiday, a visit to an apiary, and Holmes's quiet absorption with it all; the seed was planted then.) “I'm responsible for this?”

“I think, without a doubt,” said he.

I hummed a little, pleased; the thought had not occurred before. Now here: two hives, with larvae still developing; the lull before the buzz. 

“Is Oaks still here?” my friend enquired. “I meant to ask about the ladder to the attic.” His arm released me, and he rolled up both his shirt-sleeves, and unfastened the top two buttons of his shirt. “It's warm,” he said, by dint of any explanation.

I felt warmer now myself. 

“Oaks has gone home,” I said, “but the ladder is repaired. What will you do?”

“Oh,” said Holmes, “I thought to tidy some of our old papers back into boxes, and move them up into the attic out of sight. We need the lumber room for furniture. That old dresser that you want to keep for some unearthly reason.”

“All right.” I squinted in the sunlight, and inhaled. “You look delicious.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow, huffed a chuckle. “Do I now.” 

I raised my hand and thumbed a sheen of perspiration from his brow and upper lip. “Yes. You do.”

He nudged his cheek into my palm. I felt the rasp of morning stubble.

“I haven't shaved.” Stating the obvious. 

“I like it.”

“Hmm. What are your plans for the day?”

“Well, I might stroll into Fulworth. I have a letter to post. Do you need anything there?”

My friend considered. “A bottle of ink, and a half-sheet of stamps. And a bag of those biscuits we like. You know, the ones with the fig. Don't forget.”

“I'll remember.”

The village of Fulworth was fairly quiet for a late morning. There was a bustle in the bakery, and the newsagent was occupied, but the warm and pleasant weather had the locals else engaged closer to home. I mailed my letter, and I carried out my chores. The green was lined with benches which encircled a small duck pond, and I took a seat on one just for a minute, on a whim. I closed my eyes, and enjoyed the sun upon my upturned face. When I blinked open once again, I noticed _him_ immediately. Across the pond, sat on a different bench: a small and dapper man, his back set ramrod straight, both hands upon his knees, and spatted-shoes set close together. In curiosity I watched him, for he poked out like a sore thumb in this quaint, old-fashioned village. A strange specimen indeed: he owned a marvellous moustache, which perched and coiled upon his lip like a small octopus in fury. His eyes returned my gaze for a brief second, whereupon he started up, brushed down his suit, and walked away in tight neat steps from whence he came.

I remained upon my bench for a spell longer, much fascinated by the fellow, wishing to see if he might pass by once again for further scrutiny. Alas, but he did not. The sun, too, ducked behind a bank of cloud. I stood with a slight shiver, took up my purchases, and headed home.

The house was still, when I arrived. “Holmes? Are you there?” To no reply. I listened for the slightest sound of clatter from the attic, but there was none. I poked my nose out of the window in the kitchen, to no small sight of him. I scaled the stairs, stepped over one or several boxes that lay haphazard on the landing, and turned my head into the bedroom. There he was, prostrate across it, both arms high and tucked behind his head. Both eyes were closed; his brow was furrowed in deep thought.

“Holmes!” I said. “I'm home. Are you asleep?”

One eye peeped open. “No. Not quite. You've been a while.”

“There was a queue inside the bakery. And then I rested on the green, and watched the ducks.” I perched atop the bed and laid my hand upon his hip. “Did you get very far with your job?”

“You watched the _ducks?_ Whatever for?” My friend shook his head in disbelief. “I did a little; but not all. I cleared the papers from the lumber room, at least.” His eyes affixed on me quite strangely. “Did you sort through them properly, John, when we first moved here?”

I blinked slowly and considered. “I don't think so,” I replied. “We had quite enough to do. If there was no cause to refer to them while still at Baker Street, then I suppose I felt no need once we were here. Why do you ask?”

Holmes drew a breath. “There is no reason.” He shook his head clear of a thought. He reached a hand towards me, and I drew the closer to him, propping an elbow on the counterpane. I grazed and nibbled at his lips. I smoothed the crease out of his brow. He sighed and squirmed into the mattress.

“I saw the strangest little man,” I said, “whilst sitting at the green.” Holmes's neck was bare and prominent. I pinched it with my teeth. He groaned. “He appeared out of thin air, then the next minute, he was gone again.” I cupped the mound of Holmes's trouser front. “He did look very odd.” Unbuttoning, I thrust my hand inside to find my prize. I looked into my friend's grey eyes, a-flicker and aflame. In a teasing tone: “What is the matter?”

“ _You_ are the matter,” he exhaled. “Good god, the way you're _pawing_ me. You'll pull the damned thing off.” He lunged and caught my mouth to his. “Don't dare to stop. Do what you want.” His breath was heavy in my ear. “Take me as roughly as you'd like.”

I reared my head, for Holmes was rarely quite so vocal on the matter. I confess, his words affected me.

“As roughly as I'd like?”

A pause. A stasis 'twixt the shudder. “Yes.”

I dove in, and I took him, and I gloried in the doing so.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes yawned widely, stretching supine on the bed. Quite naked, still, from our endeavours of the previous half-hour. I cast a warm eye across his frame, relaxed and softening in lambency.

“If some of our past clients could only see you now,” I said. “I think they'd have a rare conniption.”

My friend huffed softly. “Which would beg the question as to why they might be standing in our doorway in the first place,” he replied. Then: “I _wouldn't_ care. I'd charge an entrance fee.”

I had to pause from buttoning my waistcoat, so amused by that idea that I set down next to that fellow, and placed a kiss against his clavicle. “I love you. You are ridiculous.”

He smiled, and stroked my wrist. “I can still feel you, John. Inside.”

Leaning in towards his ear, I pressed moist lips to lobe and tragus. _“Good.”_

He shivered. “Oh, you wretch.”

I rose, and finished buttoning. I combed my hair through quickly, and moved over to the window to look out across the dappled grass. I frowned, then, as I focused on the bushes near the gate, for a dark figure was half hidden there, but oscillating, hesitant.

“I say, Holmes, it is that fellow from this morning. He's by the gate. Just what the devil is he doing?”

“I can't exactly join you at the window, John, so you'll have to theorise alone. Is he looking up?”

I watched the little man for several moments. “No. He's gazing at the door. He's two steps forward, three steps back. He is really quite bizarre. Oh, he is leaving. There. He's gone.” I shook my head. “Holmes, should I follow him?”

“What for? You'll be following half the village at this rate. People are curious.”

I turned and caught his curling smirk.

“My name is known, John. Celebrated.”

“Why, you egotistical --” I threw a cushion at his head. “And what am I? Chopped liver? I'm your biographer! Your _published_ biographer.”

Holmes bounded off the bed. “If you dare try to tickle me, I swear that I will --”

“You'll what?” I lurched towards him, but he vanished through the door. I heard the bathroom door swing to, then the sound of running water. The little man forgotten – temporarily – I tracked my friend down to the threshold. He had soaked a bathroom flannel and was now briskly wiping down. He raised his head and winked. “Don't dare.”

I leaned against the jamb, and watched. “Do you know, I adore every inch of you. Each and every damn solitary inch. You are perfect.”

“Hardly perfect,” said he, as he rinsed out the cloth. “I am battleworn now. I have scars. I have lines.” He pointed. “Grey hairs.”

“Still perfect,” I countered. “Your cock's still the same.”

He began to laugh then. “Well, yes. The one fixed point in a changing age.” He tossed the cloth into the sink. “I had better get dressed. Shoo, John, shoo. Let me by.”

Ten minutes later, we were in the kitchen making tea and slicing fresh-baked bread for sandwiches.

“What did you mean back then,” I said, plucking two red-ripe tomatoes from the bowl, “when you asked me if I'd sorted through those papers that you're moving?”

Holmes paused while scooping butter, knife aloft, frozen in motion. 

“There has to be a reason why you asked,” I said, persistent.

“It doesn't matter,” he said softly. 

“Should I sort through them?”

“If you like.”

I sighed. “You're being very cryptic. I can't think of anything you might have found that would be untoward.”

“Well then,” said he, and set his butter knife to movement once again.

We sorted through the mail pile as we waited for the tea to brew. There was a letter from our young friend, Jacob Jones. He was excited to inform us that his dog Bess expected pups, and if we wanted, when the day came, would we care to take our pick? Holmes grunted non-committally. I resolved to twist his arm nearer the time, for I had long yearned for a pup of any breed to raise and train.

“You have your bees. I'd like a dog,” I said, folding the letter back into its envelope. 

“The two are scarcely comparable,” my friend said, with some feeling. He saw my face. “Oh, please don't pout, John. Dogs are dependent. They smell. They shed.”

“You are good with them, though,” I replied.

He harrumphed.

We drank the tea and ate the sandwiches. At my request Holmes wound the phonograph, and we listened to the Hoffmann Barcarolle. It was a pleasant interlude, and we talked of books and plays, and of a theatre trip to London in the not too distant future. On our last visit we had called on Mrs. Hudson, and learned that she was still seeking lodgers for those 'light and airy rooms', and just how no-one did pass muster, how strange it was, and how she missed us. “Just enjoy the peace and quiet,” said Holmes, “after twenty-two years of loud chaos.”

Later in the day the house was three, with Oaks our housekeeper at large in his domain. We had taken to the custom of sitting with him in the kitchen, talking through our day and his, as the good fellow bustled back and forth with floury hands and baking trays. This evening he was conjuring a Spring vegetable tart, with new potatoes and fresh salad leaves.

“Oaks,” I said, “you know just about everything that happens in the village, am I right?”

The fellow grinned. “You wouldn't be far wrong, I don't suppose. Now, mind your elbow, Dr. Watson, don't go and lean it in the butter dish. I've better things to do than scrub your shirt-sleeves day and night.”

“Well, have you heard of an odd chap who has been hovering about there...” 

I explained about the dandy, and Oaks' eyes grew round in dawning recognition.

“Aye!” said he. “I've heard of him. He's staying at the inn. He's a little furriner.”

“Excuse me, he's a what?”

“A _furriner_. Tha' knows. Not from this country. From abroad.”

“Oh!” I said. “A _foreigner_. I see. So, what's he doing here?”

Oaks shrugged. “Selling Macassar oils, most likely. Ha! Mrs. Donald from the inn told me his name.” Oaks scratched his head. “A Mr. Parrow, yes, that's right. That's all I know. Now, let me scrub these new potatoes and we'll get 'em on the boil, what do you say.”

I looked to Holmes. He shrugged. It seemed the name was unfamiliar to my friend. I let the subject slide, turning my attention to the wondrous smells of baking tart and garden mint.

Yet later, after dinner, just the two of us, I remembered the filled boxes on the landing.

“I think I might, Holmes, if you wouldn't mind.” I climbed the stairs, and there they were, unmoved from early morning. I sat cross-legged at the first one, and set to leafing through the documents. Old policies and statements, pinned invoices, remittance sheets. “This is all dull,” I said. “I can't see anything of import.” And then I stopped. And Holmes beside me stilled in accord. I plucked a bundle from the middle of the box.

“Oh, Holmes,” I said, “did you mean this?”

Holmes nodded slowly, eyes fast upon me.

“Oh, Holmes,” I said again. “I'm sorry.”


	3. Chapter 3

I stared down dully at the letters. I weighed their heft, two dozen envelopes or more, with faded ink, to a _John Watson_ , care of a private hotel in the Strand, then later in the pile addressed to _221B Baker Street_. The looping script at once familiar; a cavalcade of memory. I turned them over in my hands. I looked at Holmes.

“Letters from Everett,” I said.

“I don't know who that is,” said Holmes. “You never mentioned him.”

“Did you... read...?”

He nodded shortly.

I winced. “I'm sorry.”

“You needn't keep apologising, John,” said he. Uncurling from his hunch, he stood, and extended a long hand. He helped me up. “Let's go downstairs again.”

That led us to the sitting-room, brandy glasses by our side. I lit a cigarette and sucked at it, all nerves, goodness knows why. I tossed the bundle on the table; it made a deadened, heavy sound, and startled both of us, I think.

“I was very young,” I said. “And indiscreet.”

To his deep credit, my friend smiled. “Not half as indiscreet as your chum Everett,” he said. “He was a sprightly correspondent.” Then, quite serious: “It was unpardonable of me to read his letters. You must forgive me. I have really no excuse for that effrontery.”

“I will tell you, then,” I said, “just who he was, and what he meant to me.” I paused. “If you would wish me to?”

Holmes laid a hand upon my arm. “Yes. Please.”

“I haven't thought of these letters in years,” I said, musing. “I wonder how they ended up amongst all my other papers. Pushed to the back of a cupboard, no doubt, and then caught up in a folder or file. Oh well, they are here.” I felt myself prevaricating. “Oliver Everett was my first love affair. We met in service – in my regiment. I tended to an injury of his: a shrapnel wound. It put him out of action for a while; I used to visit him; we'd chat. We grew to exchanging confidences, and confessed ourselves quite early on. That's not as rare as one might think. War has a funny way of making clear how short and precious one's life is, and how to take all of the pleasure that one can, in any way that one can find it.”

I clasped my friend's hand in my own, and squeezed it tightly.

“We were together for a year, I think, then I was invalided out. The same fate befell poor Everett shortly afterwards, only he did not return to London. He was scooped up by his family and sent to live abroad to best recuperate. We wrote to one another, as you've seen by all the evidence. Perhaps we hoped that time would find a way to work things out. But then I met _you_ , Holmes, and, well, everything changed.”

“Oh,” said my friend. He sounded thoughtful. “The letters stop in 1882.” He paused once more. “Thank you.”

“I wrote and told him,” I said softly. “He was a gentleman about it. I haven't heard from him since then. Oh, Holmes, I wish that I had told you, after we had both declared ourselves. I had thought you would not want that. My past history. The weight of it.”

“I had always wondered,” he replied. “But, John, you know me, and how... _possessive_... I can be. I chose not to dwell in _too_ much detail as to the possibilities.” He laughed ruefully then. “My god, those letters, they are something. You must have blushed down to your roots when you first read them. Were your own, to him, as colourful?”

I groaned. “I think they may have been. At least we only signed with our initials. We had some little saving sense, at least.” 

We sat there silent for some minutes, each lost in private contemplation. Then I looked towards my friend.

“Do you mind terribly?” I asked.

Holmes rubbed his chin. “If I had found and read them _very_ early on, then yes, I think I would have minded. There may have been a frightful scene.” He smiled. “In matters of the heart, you know, I used to be irrational. At least, more than I am _these_ days. I am a little jealous, I'll admit. Isn't that ridiculous? After all the years we've been together. If the letters hadn't been so wretchedly _rude_...” He broke off laughing. “John, I love you. You're with me. That's all that matters in the end.”

“I'll burn them,” I said, resolute. “For what's the point of them at all.” 

“Oh, well, don't be dramatic.” And then a pause. “But if you like.”

“I shall throw them in the brazier,” I said. “And we'll have done with them.”

He caught me by the cuffs then, held my chin and kissed me fiercely. This succeeded for some minutes, and I could not help but feel this was my friend's way of re-staking his sole claim to me. We ended up in quite some disarray, entwined and bothered on the sofa. I had a fistful of his shirt, and his full lips were at my throat and wreaking havoc on my decency.

“I'm going to have you,” he said then, raising his head, his mouth a lustful moue. He dealt slickly with my buttons, drew me out, and contemplated me. And scarcely had I come to terms, but now was in his mouth and he was sucking at me busily, and drawing the most inelegant of groans from the raw depths of me. I clutched his hair, and dragged him taut to swallow deeper. This he did, with muffled whines. I thrust yet further in the maw of him; he took it all without complaint, and edged me closer, drawing back at the last instant.

“You have a choice,” said he, his cheeks a flush, his lips red-swollen, shocking in their state. “I can make you come like this, or you can have me here, again, just how you like.”

As you might well appreciate, I had barely breath to speak or even gasp. I moaned and thrashed and all but kneed him in the face. “You might have asked me rather sooner,” I said, a-croak. “I'm almost _there_.”

“I know.” He tweaked me.

_"Holmes--”_

He grabbed my hand and thrust it to his trouser front. “I'm hard,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Make up your mind.”

“There is a word for men like you,” I said, eyes twinkling all the same. “Get on your back, god damn you. I'm going to give you what you want.”

Of course, that had him panting, and I stripped him to the sound of it, then I was full upon him, and his legs were tight around me, and my spit-slick fingers in him, and goodness knows whatever noise that I was making by that point. His face was creased as I made headway. _“John...”_

“Just look at you,” I whispered. “You were made to take me in.”

He wailed, and hooked an anchor the more firmly at my back.

“More,” he gasped, and “ _More_ ,” and “ _Harder_ , John, I _want_ you. _Oh!--_ ”

I couldn't last; did he expect me to? A dozen hip-tight thrusts into his core, and I was roaring my release as he came juddering beneath me.

We lay for several minutes, joined and aching, then to softening.

“This sofa is uncomfortable for ruddling,” my friend complained. “There's something digging in my back.” He kissed my ear. “Get off me, John.”

I eased myself out of his body, and watched him hoist his underwear. “I shall be sore,” he said, with more than some degree of satisfaction.

“Twice in one day, well, I should think so,” I replied. “You little bawd.”

He chuckled as he fastened up his trousers, and I busied with my own. We sprawled back down. He lit his pipe, I drained my brandy glass. The letters on the table now ignored, of little consequence and brazier-bound. And together we sat, peaceful, as the late evening turned to night.


	4. Chapter 4

Next day, the sun was glorious, with scarce a cloud to threaten it. We flung the windows wide, and took deep breaths of the green air. Today, I vowed, would bring a resolution to _The Case of Mr. Parrow_ (as I called it). We would stroll into the village, and en route or otherwise I felt quite certain we would see that little misfit. Whereupon, I thought, the one of us would tackle him to candour.

In the meantime, there was breakfast: smoked kippers and poached eggs.

“Did you step on a tack, Mr. Holmes?” asked old Oaks, as he brought through the trays and set them down on the table. “Or have you twisted your knee? Aye, I know what that's like. You get to an age, and then _whump!_ that's your knees. I'm a martyr to mine.”

“I'm _fine_ , Oaks,” said Holmes.

I watched him as he nibbled around his eggs, and ate a slice of buttered toast. Two cups of sweetened coffee, and he was filling up his pipe with all the last day's plugs and dottles. He sat back and eyed me warily.

“You still have Parrow on your brain,” said he. “I know that look of yours. You want me to come with you, yes? – to wherever you are going?”

“Yes please. If you can bear to tear yourself away from stalking baby bees.”

Holmes rolled his eyes. “They will be stirring _any_ day now, John. And you had better hope so too, else all your dreams of honey sandwiches will be going up in smoke.”

“I am sure they will be fine,” I said. “Then you will study them, and research them, and write your monograph, or book, or _magnum opus_.” I smiled. “Whichever term you deem to be applicable.”

My friend nodded in approval. “I hope the latter,” he replied.

We were quiet for some moments. Oaks came to clear the dishes, and we listened to him clatter in the kitchen and around the house, finishing his chore-work. Looking from the window at the front, my eyebrows rose to meet my hairline, for there again, as like some pale insistent ghost, was Mr. Parrow, by the hedge. I started sideways for the door, my temper rising at the impudence. Holmes by this point had observed, and was closely at my heels – although confound it, he was smiling at my spluttered stamping folly.

I was halfway down the path before I realised the figure had withdrawn. I wrenched the gate and stepped onto the path. Mr. Parrow was retreating somewhat hastily; I all but ran and caught him by the upper arm, twisting him around with no small force to meet a pair of green eyes fixed on me and blinking in alarm.

“At last, I have you!” I exclaimed, but dimly aware of my own melodrama.

The dandy wriggled in distress. “ _Mon dieu!_ ” said he. “I am most sorry for my trespass. I have offended in some way?” His eyes were now straying behind me to Sherlock Holmes, who had now reached us and was standing with arms folded, a wry expression on his face.

“Why are you spying on us?” I demanded. I hesitated. “You are French?”

Mr. Parrow drew himself three inches taller – which was still not very tall – and puffed his chest in indignation. “I am _Belgian_ ,” he said, and sounding most offended. “ _Always_ , people get it wrong.” I had released him by this point. He bowed a courtly little bow, and smiled but slightly. “My apologies once more. I meant no harm. I am on, how you say, my holidays? To see the sights of England, _non?_ ”

“There can not be very many inside our hedge,” I said, still prickled.

My friend stepped forward, and to my surprise thrust out a hand in welcome.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” said he. “Perhaps you are aware.”

Mr. Parrow blinked and nodded, with an expression akin to awe upon his face. “I am aware,” he replied softly. “I am aware, oh yes, indeed.” His fine moustaches twitched in pleasure. He shook the hand proffered to him, and introduced himself quite formally. “I am from the Belgian police force,” he explained. “One day I hope, perhaps, to extend myself more in your line of work. I find you an _inspiration_ , Mr. Holmes.” The fellow fluttered his small hands. “Hence my intrusion, please forgive me, but I did not wish to bother you.”

“I know your name,” my friend replied. “You are well-known upon your turf.”

I rolled my eyes as both men puffed their chests as peacocks on display.

“To me,” the little dandy said, “you are _always_ the _Queen Bee_.” 

“And I am Dr. John Watson,” I interjected. “Mr. Holmes's trusted biographer and friend. And I am off on a nice walk, and so I bid you a good day, sir.”

And having shaken the man's hand, I marched away towards the shore.

Holmes joined me minutes later on the beach.

“You're in a grump,” he said. “Can I ask why?”

“I apologise,” I said. “I have cooled down. I found the fellow irritating, that is all.” I turned to Holmes. “I thought you didn't know his name?”

“Well, not the way that Oaks pronounced it,” said my friend. He chuckled then. “Oh John, don't pout. Let's sit down here and watch the sea a while.”

We did so. It was pleasant, warm and quiet, save for the waves and soaring gulls in raucous glory high above.

“How are you feeling?” I enquired.

“I _ache_ ,” he said. He leaned back on his elbows, cast his face towards the sun. “If you weren't such a _colossus_...”

(Oh, very well – I puffed my chest as a proud peacock on display.)

Holmes noted this, but to his credit he said nothing; curved a smile and bit his lip. “I still want more of you,” he said. “It's this spring weather. I'm in flux.”

“All this fresh air,” I said, “is making you a harlot.” I touched his hand. “I'm not complaining in the least.”

The sea, the gulls, our own quiet breathing.

“John...”

“I know.”

“Well, then.”

I stood, with some small effort, finding purchase on the sand. “Come on. Get up.”

He latched his arm to mine. Our journey up towards the top was the more difficult, for reasons.

He had locked the front door of the house; I wrestled seconds with the key.

I chased him up; he flung himself upon the bed.

Grey eyes upon me, pooled and bright. “John...”

“I know.” I watched him as he wrenched at cloth and pulled his garments down.

“Now spread your legs,” I said.

He did so, gasping, desperate. He waited, then. We might have been a photograph, quite frozen, space and time, but for the heaving of his stomach, and the rising and the falling of my chest. I tipped the oil onto my fingers, and advanced. I kissed his mouth, I kissed his throat, I nipped his shoulders, and he moaned. I scraped his chest with avid teeth, I stroked and probed and placed my fingers where he wanted them. He shivered, base and absolute. “ _John, please_...”

One finger, two, and then the puffed flesh quivering and tightening around me. Pushing in, and pulling out, hearing him whine, a high-pitched strangle in my ear.

“My god,” I hissed, “you're beautiful.”

Base and absolute. 

He came, like that, around me, as I fucked him with my hand, his body shaking, eyes tight shut, ungodly moaning, jerking, reaching, blindly pulling at my hair.

I licked him clean. He moaned the more. I raised myself upon one arm and looked him over. “You are quite wrecked,” I said.

He opened one bright eye. “That's what you do to me. Good lord.”

At some late interval we dressed, and made our way down to _réalité_. From the wide window of the kitchen, something caught my friend's sharp eye. He took brisk steps outside, towards the distant hives. “ _Look, John! John, look!_ ”

Small bees, emerging from their hive. 

He turned to look at me, his face alight with joy.

_“You see? You see them, John?”_

“I see them, Holmes! I see them!”

The _Queen Bee_ , indeed. My own queen bee. 

I watched him as he all but ran, all full delight, towards them.

 

-END-


End file.
